


Conversations in the Dark

by belovedmuerto



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Conversations, M/M, empath!John, experiments in empathy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-04
Updated: 2014-02-04
Packaged: 2018-01-11 04:48:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,696
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1168878
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/belovedmuerto/pseuds/belovedmuerto
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John and Sherlock have conversations, both mundane and important.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Conversations in the Dark

**Author's Note:**

> Chronologically, this happens before "Christmas in Sussex", just a short while after the end of "that dreadful overflowing sound". I just hadn't written it in time to post it first.
> 
> This one hasn't been beta'd, because I'm impatient and need the kick in the ass I am hoping posting this will give me to get back to writing more.

Sherlock’s music wraps itself around John in their bed, cozy and warm, and he dozes off to it, vaguely worried, just as he has been for days now. 

He’s trying not to let it get to him, not to let it steer him, not to let it make him say things before they should be said, but it’s hard. It’s hard and it’s easy, because he knows he will need to say something, but he doesn’t want to, he doesn’t want to disturb anything. He feels too fragile, too brittle to deal with heartache right now, and he’s worried that whatever is bothering Sherlock is going to make him ache, because it makes Sherlock ache sometimes.

At some point, the music stops, and a few minutes later Sherlock crawls into bed beside him, prickly as ever in his head. John turns towards him and Sherlock gathers him close, murmuring something indistinct against his neck and rubbing his cold feet against John’s calves.

John makes a vague sound of protest, mostly out of obligation because it’s what Sherlock expects him to do, because it’s what he always does when Sherlock sticks the chilled bits of himself against the warmer bits of John in bed, and lets himself drop closer towards true sleep, held close, safe. He can still feel the shadow deep in Sherlock’s mind, that small concern; he knows it could fester and grow into resentment, but he doesn’t want to push Sherlock into talking about it before he’s ready. He doesn’t want to risk pushing Sherlock away, not now, not when they’ve only just found each other again, not when John has only just regained his empathy.

Just before he slips entirely into unconsciousness, he has the vague thought that he shouldn’t worry about it so much, not at the moment. Not if Sherlock is still coming to bed with him each night.

\----

Everything still feels new and strange in his head. Everyone is still prickly, none of them more so than Sherlock, but at least with him it’s a welcome prickliness, it’s the way he’s always felt to John. His empathy is only just returned, and it doesn’t feel quite real yet. It doesn’t feel right yet. John is more sensitive to the emotions of others than ever, and it’s hard for him to deal with them, much of the time. 

Sherlock had suggested they go off to Sussex, give John a break for a while, so he could rebuild in peace, but John doesn’t think that’s a good idea. He doesn’t think it’ll be good for him right now, to retreat. There’s no sense in hiding away when their home is in London. He’ll have to get used to the emotions being in his head again, and he’ll have to be around others in order to get used to it.

John wishes they could go to Sussex. He wants desperately some days to escape with Sherlock to the coast, to forget about all the worry and fear that he’d felt for those months he had been the only one in his head. But he knows now is not the time for escape, and he doesn’t know how to explain that to Sherlock.

\----

There’s a case, and John has a hard time with the crime scene. The residual emotions of the murder pound at him even while he stands just outside the police tape, watching Sherlock flit about, his magnifier out and his monologue constant. Usually the crime scene tape provides more of a psychic barrier than it feels like it is today; John’s vision starts to grey around the edges while it beats at him, pounding in his head and in his chest with his heartbeat.

John tries to keep the pain off of his face, but he doesn’t think he does a very good job, because Greg keeps glancing at him with concern in his eyes and his mind, and even Sherlock looks over at him, once, and sends a brief query his way, along their bond.

It barely registers over the pounding terror and pain of the crime scene. He knows Sherlock must be feeling some of it. How does he tune it out? How does he ignore it? John doesn’t remember ever having this much trouble with crime scenes before.

And sadly enough, as far as John is able to tell, this wasn’t even a particularly vicious crime. As far as murders go, it was relatively simple. But it hurts, so much, in his head.

He turns and walks away, down the street to the corner, away from the small crowd, away from the police, the flashing lights, away from Sherlock and away from the murder.

It helps a little, and he leans against the side of a building for a while, his eyes shut and his head bowed as he tries to catch his breath, slow his pounding heart, tries to filter the emotions through his mind the way he used to, through and out again, but they stick and swirl, eddying in the corners of his mind the way a brooke burbles over rocks, the way nettles catch and hold when you walk past them.

Eventually, John calms himself, clears his mind, and he lifts his head and opens his eyes.

Sherlock is stood next to him, close, leaning against the building beside him with his head tipped back and his eyes shut, looking for all the world like he’s simply enjoying the small warmth afforded by the sunlight filtering through the clouds. 

“Are we finished?” John asks. He just wants to go home and crawl into bed and pull the covers over his head, although he hesitates to admit to such a childish desire.

Sherlock nods. “It was dull.”

John tries to smile. Almost manages it. 

Sherlock strides across the pavement and throws his hand out for a taxi. One appears almost immediately. Not for the first time, John wonders if Sherlock does have latent psychic ability, and not in the way he deduces people and things, but in the way he always seems to be able to find them a cab within twenty seconds.

\----

Sherlock spends the afternoon puttering about in the kitchen. John doesn’t give in to his desire to go to bed. Instead he sits in the lounge, meditating, or as close as he can manage with Sherlock’s mutterings and the occasional banging around. Rebuilding his walls to what they had been is a slow and painstaking, painful process.

It helps, just a little.

\----

Sherlock made dinner.

John asks him who he is and what he’s done with Sherlock. Then he takes a picture and sends it to Mycroft.

Sherlock threatens to leave him, clearly teasing, but John still feels all the blood drain from his face, and he isn’t even able to speak when Sherlock’s expression melts into one of horror, and the tide of regret nearly swamps him. 

Sherlock leaps to his feet and pulls John out of his chair, cups his face and kisses him, over and over again, a silent apology, a plea for forgiveness.

John just wraps his arms around Sherlock’s waist and holds on.

\----

It’s still there, that shadow deep in Sherlock’s mind.

John stares into the darkness above him, his hands folded together across his stomach, and sighs. He wants to know what it is, he wants to fix it. But he doesn’t want to push Sherlock. He shouldn’t say anything.

“Sherlock?”

Sherlock makes a sound of acknowledgement. John feels him shift in the bed, towards him. Neither of them speaks for a few moments, and the John takes a deep breath and starts.

“I know there’s something that’s been bothering you.”

Sherlock makes a small sound but says nothing.

“I just… I want you to tell me about it.”

He feels Sherlock stiffen against him, and John turns towards him in the dark and rushes on. “Not right now, I mean. I don’t want you to tell me until you’re ready. Just, when you _are_ ready, I’d like to hear it, because it feels like it’s something I need to fix, and I can’t do that if I don’t know what it is.”

Sherlock doesn’t reply, but he isn’t pulling away from John. He isn’t leaving the bed, and he’s not shutting John out of his head. He seems unsurprised by John’s request. Like he’d been expecting it. 

John should have known.

“That’s all,” John murmurs. “I don’t want to rush you, I just… want to know.” His voice fades away. “I need to know. I can’t stand the worry.”

John turns over so he doesn’t have to face Sherlock in the dark. He shouldn’t have pushed, he shouldn’t have said anything. Sherlock won’t keep it from him forever; he’ll talk when he’s ready, he always does. It’s John’s issue if he’s impatient.

He tries to quiet his thoughts enough to go to sleep.

A few minutes later, Sherlock’s hand slips over his side, and Sherlock presses into his back, tucking in close, his nose against the back of John’s neck.

“Yes, John,” Sherlock whispers. John feels it against his skin, the movement of his lips, like a caress.

\----

John wakes in increments, slow and warm and heavy, his thoughts sluggish. There’s a deep lassitude within, and all he can feel is the slow ache of desire, tidal, moving back and forth between them.

Sherlock is wrapped around him, holding him close, molded together head to toe. His hand is under John’s vest, his thumb stroking back and forth over John’s right nipple, maddening, making him gasp.

He turns his head, tries to follow with his body, but Sherlock tightens his grip, keeping John pressed tight against him.

“Big spoon,” Sherlock murmurs. John can hear the smile in his voice, feel it along with the slow tide of desire, of tenderness and love that emanate from Sherlock, wrapping both of them in a gossamer blanket of emotion.

John settles for smiling up at Sherlock and attempting to nuzzle at what little of him he can reach with his neck twisted as far as it’ll go. “Morning,” he murmurs.

Sherlock continues flicking John’s nipple and rolls his hips against John’s bum. 

They don’t talk much after that.

\----

John dozes off after the orgasms, not an unusual occurrence. He feels safe and warm and content with Sherlock pressed against him. The worries of the past few days and weeks feel far from him, distant and shrouded in mist. The terror and the pain of being without his empathy feel even further away, a distant uncomfortable memory, something to be avoided and not thought about.

He wakes again later that morning with sunlight streaming through the window. Sherlock isn’t in bed with him any longer, and the sheets next to him are cool. He’s been up for a while. John sits up and stretches, rubs his hands over his face.

A moment later, Sherlock strides into the room. He’s fully dressed, his coat on, wrapping his scarf around his neck. 

“Kettle’s on,” he says, with a small smile tugging at his lips. John figures he must look rumpled and half asleep still, that always makes Sherlock smile. “I’m off out.”

“Where?” John asks. He doesn’t quite have the mental capacity to articulate better, not at the moment. Not without any tea.

Sherlock makes a face at his imprecision, but he answers. “Barts.”

“Case?”

Sherlock shakes his head. “Molly texted; an interesting corpse she thought I’d like to look at.”

John chuckles. “Isn’t she sweet?” Then he yawns and stretches again.

Sherlock grins. “Yes, delightful.”

“I’m going to do a shop later,” John continues. “Anything you need?”

Sherlock thinks for a moment. “Paper clips.”

“Do I want to know why?”

“Probably not.”

John shrugs. “All right.”

Sherlock smiles again, and is gone.

\----

John texts Sherlock when he gets home from the shop. _Will you be home for dinner?_

Sherlock’s reply comes through a few minutes later. _Yes. Are you cooking?_

_Thought I’d do that risotto you seem to like._

_Excellent. Wine?_

_Are you asking if we have any?_

_I’m asking if you’d like me to pick up a bottle on the way home. I know we don’t have any._

_That would be nice._

\----

Sherlock comes into their bedroom shortly after John has turned out the light and pulled the covers up to his chin. He doesn’t turn the lights on, and John listens as he shucks his clothing in the darkness, listens to him pulls on his pyjamas. 

John listens as Sherlock goes into the bathroom and slides the door shut. He shuts his eyes against the light that filters through the glass, listens to the water run and the toilet flush. He waits and listens for the door to slide open again, listens to Sherlock cross the room to his side of the bed, and pull back the covers. John feels him settle into the bed next to him, and he waits.

Eventually, Sherlock starts to speak. His voice is low, gentle. He sounds thoughtful, and John knows he’s been thinking about what he wants to say all day, and longer than that. John braces himself against the words, and Sherlock takes his hand, twines their fingers together.

“We spent a lot of time getting used to being in each other's heads all the time and sharing emotions, and talking about them. We worked on that connection. After the accident, when you were not well, and we lost that form of communication, I felt worried all the time, and afraid. And I could see that you were worried and afraid too, John, but you shut me out. You wouldn’t tell me about it. You wouldn’t let me share it with you. I have grown used to being able to do something when you are worried or afraid, and I have grown used to allowing you to do the same for me. I expect it, and I expect to do that for you, and I want to do that for you. But you shut me out when I needed you, and when you needed me, and that bothers me. I think that, going forward, I need you to try to let me in more. I hope that we never lose the connection we have in such a way again, but I need to know that if we do I will still be able to support you, that you will allow me to continue to support you. You can lean on me, John, and I think you forget that, sometimes. It feels a bit as though you don't trust me when you shut me out. And that scares me.”

John nods in the dark and turns to Sherlock, who lets go of his hand to wrap his arms around John and pulls him in close. If John is leaking a bit on Sherlock's shoulder neither of them mentions it.

"I was terrified, Sherlock,” John mumbles against his neck, voice muffled and choked up. “All the time, I was so afraid that I'd never get my empathy back, and I'd never get you back. I felt like I was losing you every day. I wondered what use I would be to you, without anything to contribute."

"John--"

"I need to say this. I thought you would leave if I couldn't tell you what I was feeling, and I couldn't force myself to say it either because I could see how unhappy you were and I didn't want to burden you with my fears on top of that. I should have told you, it would have helped. It would’ve helped both of us, and I'm sorry that I didn't."

Sherlock sighs gently, in relief. John feels his arms tighten around his middle, and snuggles closer.

"I'm glad you told me,” John murmurs. “I know this has been on your mind. I will remember, and I will work on it. Hold me to that."

"Thank you, John."

John shifts and lifts his head, presses a kiss to the nearest bit of Sherlock, his jawline. "Thank you."

They settle into the quiet and the relief of having the air cleared, and soon both are asleep.


End file.
